Conversation with Atheist-God: by the late Sherlock Holmes
by cc4756
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes died, he did not know what to expect, but it definitely wasn't to be stuck talking with God...who is an atheist. A comedic/philosophical novel; each chapter is an exploration of philosophical issues (without the technical jargon). Join us on a journey with Sherlock Holmes and his friends in search for the meaning of life through the eyes of the atheistic God.
1. The Three Doors

**Update: here is the revised version of chapter 1. Please refer to the bottom for the issues that will be explored in this novel.**

* * *

In a way, death is easy - simple as drifting into a deep slumber. What is rather more difficult is the subsequent event.

When one dies, one would expect the soul to rise to the heavens, or to descend into the embrace of hell. Should one be more exotic, his or her life may be recycled in an infinite loop of reincarnations, forever repaying the sins of the previous life.

And if one was a skeptic, then death should be the ultimate end.

What one should not expect is to have three antique doors shoved into one's face, with a floating clock counting down from exactly one minute. What one should not expect even further, is to have a floating wooden plank engraved in golden letters flying about one's head with a written instruction:

"Choose one of these doors, or suffer the consequences".

What one should definitely not expect – is to have the three doors labeled: 'Heaven', 'Hell', and 'Request a Meeting with God'. Because that implies one can choose to go to heaven or hell, which means Moriarty probably did not go to hell – a sad thought, of course – but it also means I could have stolen Watson's money to buy that new pipe a few years back, instead of giving it to his ex-wives.

However, that is the exact situation I am now encountering. Standing on a white cloud, which is unexpectedly normal given the situation I am in, I stare at the three doors admittedly more confused than when I was solving the most evil crimes being committed in London.

_Interesting._

I stare at the doors and notice the gigantic clock starting its countdown…59…58. The ticking sound echoes around the space like it would in a Cathedral-like structure. It was quiet, but exceptionally clear that each second is passing into the next.

"So what are the consequences?" I decide to voice my question aloud in the case that someone who might find it amusing to watch a lost confused soul is hiding somewhere.

I did not expect to hear a reply, but a muffled laugh from behind one of the doors betrays my expectation.

_Of course, it should really come as no surprise that - even in the Afterlife - people are as frustrating as ever. _

"Who is there?"

"No one in particular, Mister Sherlock Holmes," replies the voice "but I do advise you not to try discovering what is the consequences are."

40…39…

Holding in my slight anger, I proceed to examine the three doors in detail. There is no one in spite of the voice.

_Hallucination?_

"I am not an hallucination Mister Holmes."

"Then where are you, my good sir?" I inquire with a slight edge to my voice, a truly rare occurrence that surprises even myself.

"I am here, Mister Holmes. Simply not having a physical form does not mean I do not have a voice."

"But how can that be? Voice is created by the existence of the vocal chord, sound cannot exist without a form, sir." I reply succinctly, more to entertain my invisible conversant than hoping for a serious conversation. After all, I need him to give me information on my situation.

"Well, Mister Holmes, you are walking on a cloud with a flying clock and a floating plank about your head. I think it's time you employ that deductive skill you pride so much in your living days. It is time to choose, Mister Holmes"

30…29…

The ticking continues to echoes. My focus shifted from the man to the clock.

_He is right, now is the time to think. _I close my eyes and begin the familiar process of shutting out the world and drift into my thoughts. _So what he implies is that in this place we are not bound by the rule of physics, or maybe there is a rule, but not one from my living days? On the other hand, this could simply be a dream._

20…19…

_Never mind if this is a dream. If it is, no decision here will matter. If it is not, it seems the wrong decision can lead to a disastrous situation. So now that my observation skill cannot be applied to this place, what shall I do?_

12…11…

_Think, Sherlock, think. Focus!_

I screw up my eyes. Sweat trickles down my temple.

_Here is the fact: I do not know if heaven or hell is better for me. By conventional wisdom, I should choose heaven. But conventional wisdom is clearly not trustworthy if I can choose which to enter. I also do not know what happens if I "request a meeting with God". I do not know anything. But I have to choose._

"4…3…"

_This is it then - a roll of the dice; a toss of a coin. This is a game I cannot win by deduction. This is a true game of chance. _

I now open my eyes and peer into the mist of wispy white clouds beneath my feet, thinking.

_My chances are always with knowledge. What sounds like the option that will give me the knowledge to survive this game of afterlife? Yes. This is not logical, but this is the best I can do. This is it. _

"…_2…1"_

I look up, walk forward, and open the door labeled "Request a Meeting with God".

Complete darkness envelops me as soon as I set my foot into the door. Expecting anything to happen at anytime, I keep myself alert. Looking around, I half expect to see the source of the mysterious voice. There is still nothing. I took another step. Something must be about to happen now. My eyes dart around. Left, right, up, down. Sweat trickles. Mouth dry…

Silence.

Then someone slaps me in the face.

* * *

**Please note the first 4 chapters will be a simple lead-up to the heavy philosophies in the latter chapters. If you are only interested in philosophy, feel free to scan through c1-4, and read seriously from chapter 5 onwards.**

**Issues that I will explore in this novel, the number of chapters can change, but for now it explains the depth of each subject:**

**1\. A simple touch upon the concepts of: Time, Duality, and Hope (4 chapters)**

**2\. Good and Evil (~2 chapters)**

**3\. Emotions (~1 chapter)**

**4\. Morality (~3 chapters)**

**5\. Truth and Knowledge (~4 chapters)**

**6\. The Failure of Logic and Mathematics (~4 chapters)**

**7\. Language and Concepts (~5 chapters)**

**8\. Paradoxes (~2 chapters)**

**9\. Consciousness (~3 chapters)**

**10\. Meaning of life (~1 chapter)**


	2. Meet God, the Atheist

**Chapter 2**

"Holmes…?", a familiar voice questions as I regain my focus. The pain still stings.

"You did not have to slap me to wake me up, dear Doctor!" I rebuke angrily.

_So it was a dream…_

"No, God! No! I did not slap you!" Watson replies hastily, hands holding up, "I was myself slapped when I chose to meet God!"

_Oh, so it was **not** a dream..._

"Amusing," another somewhat familiar voice squeezes the breath out of my not-so-living lungs. I turn my head to the side and discover a pair of deep brown eyes boring into me. A slight smile decorates her lips.

"Madam Irene Ad - Norton." I recover quickly and give her a curt nod, despite my mind racing for the cause of this strange meeting. "Have you not been – ah – under the ground – for far longer than I have?"

Her smile widens but no reply comes out. I turn my attention to Doctor Watson instead.

"And I was at your funeral five years ago, was I not? Also, dear Doctor! I must say - you look much younger than I last remember you!"

"So do you, Hol…-" says Watson excitedly before a deep sound interrupts him.

"That is because 'Time' does not exist in afterlife, Mister Holmes."

I glare at the source of the voice and see before me an old man. An old man with a long white beard; and a long white hair; and of white complexion - wearing a white rope.

_Of all the surprises since afterlife, you have got to be kidding me. God, this is God?_

"You are God?" The question bursts out of me before I could stop myself.

"Yes! I am God! Do I not live up to your expectations?" The old man asks with a frail and shaking voice, but with a humorous tone.

"Well, I – ah - I have always thought that the image of God was westernised by our society," I stutter in reply, "so, I'd imagined you would be…black, or a woman, or something less…ordinary."

God booms with laughter. I cannot help but notice a little smile from Irene Adler as well.

"As time is not of consequent in the afterlife, Mister Holmes, neither is physical image." God said in a quieter voice "What you see is simply a composition of what you three believe I look like. I am not limited by my physical appearance."

At this, I begin to look around. Curiously, I find us in a fairly small Victorian drawing room with exquisite wooden decoration – Egyptian style apparently. Watson, Irene, and I each sit within our own ornate wooden chair; Irene to my left; Watson to my right. God sits before us, behind a wooden table, somewhat similar to the one the register lady used, but with a beautifully crafted circular snake eating its tail carved into the front façade.

"What did you mean by 'Time' not existing here? Are we not conversing under the influence of 'Time' right now? Albeit an afterlife-time." Irene directed the question at God. My attention returns to study the face of the supposedly wisest living being in the room.

_Of course, now is not the time to be surprised. I came here for knowledge. It is good to see Watson again, nonetheless. However, the 'woman' being here is somewhat strange, why did God put us three together?_

God stares at Irene for a moment and then looks at me, "Would you like to answer that question, Mister Holmes?"

I nod. "I trust that when God refers to 'Time', he means the time under the metric system. It is the scientific 'Time' that does not exist here. However, the 'Time' that we rely on to arrange the events of our experience in our mind certainly exists here. Otherwise, it would be impossible for us to continue our conversation. Since our physical body is subjected to the scientific 'Time', the fact that we are in our younger selves means that we are not bound by that physical 'Time'… -"

Watson suddenly interjects,

"I do not understand, Holmes. Our experience exists in the physical world, does it not? Have the recent development in neuroscience not taught us that Duality, the idea that the mind and the body are two different entities, is completely wrong? The science has shown us with hundreds of cases that a deformation of our physical brain can alter our personalities and mind completely! If our mind, and therefore our experience, exists alongside our physical brain, then 'Time', which is the physical entity of the Universe, must apply to our mind, and therefore exist!" Watson finishes his argument with triumph etched in his face.

_A lifetime with me has taught him deduction skill. However, it seems he still rely too much on accepted theories._

I sigh loudly and begin my correction, "Of course, Doctor. That would be the case had we not died and are in the afterlife. The fact that we are here means two things: we are either dreaming, or we are truly dead. For the sake of this meeting, let us say we are truly dead, since if we are dreaming, it would not matter anyways."

Watson widens his eyes as realisation starts to emerge from that circular face. His triumph grin drains slowly. I feel bad for Doctor at times, but not enough to let him continue being stupid, though.

"Your reasoning is based on the fact that the body and the mind is not a separate entity, proven by cases studied in the field of neuroscience. However, now that we are dead, and that we are talking, this theory has been proven wrong! Otherwise, the fact that our body has perished should mean that we are unable to hold this very conversation. By that light, those study cases with damaged brain must somehow retain the mind of the individuals. We are here in a body that is 30 years younger, and we are conversing with God. It is quite clear that the mind is apart from our earthly body. By deduction, Duality, if we are truly dead, is the correct theory! Therefore, it is entirely possible that the scientific 'Time' does not exist here." I conclude logically and look back at God. He smirks.

"Does that answer satisfy you as well, Miss Adler?"

"Yes." Irene says simply.

_Curious. 'Miss Adler'? So she's got a divorce after all? Also, he has not said definitively that my answer is right. Have I missed something?_

"Now, there must be a reason each of you have chosen to see me instead of going to Heaven or Hell. I believe that reason is because you want some answers?"

The three of us ask at the same time:

"Can I choose to go to heaven or hell after this?"

"Where are my friends?"

"What's the point of living?"

_Watson wants to know where his friends are? Well, of course, I forget the old Doctor is a social animal. He must want to choose to stay with his friends regardless whether that is in heaven or hell. Brave – as expected. Irene, on the other hand, why asks such question if she is already dead?. _I snap out of my thought and once again turn my gaze towards the old man, waiting for the answers.

"Mister John Watson, your friends all chose to go to Heaven, although I must say that Mister Moriarty and Mister Holmes the elder chose Hell. I do wonder why they did not choose to see me, but they must have certain sources on Earth you three clearly cannot access."

God finishes his reply and look at the three of us directly.

"Mister Holmes, and this also applies to you Mister Watson, since you have not chosen Heaven or Hell in the beginning, your entire fate hereafter lies exclusively with me. No more Free Will, I'm afraid."

_Hell, I guess flipping the coin gets you unfortunate results at times. _I glance at Watson who looks momentarily shocked. _Looks like he did not think beyond knowing where his friends were. Mycroft and Moriarty chose hell? Moriarty may have had a change of heart – rather unlikely. Mycroft, though...yes, they must have known something we do not._

"And so we approach the most popular question," God continues with a lazy look towards Irene who appears strangely eager, his voice betraying a little boredom, "Miss Adler, did you know this is the question most people ask me when they chose to see me?"

Everybody remains silent, the Question, ultimately, can only be fully answered by the Entity that has created us all.

"Unfortunately, I cannot answer that question."

"What?" We shout in exasperation, Irene was the loudest.

"But you are God! Did you not create us? What's the point of making us live without telling us why?" Irene begins firing questions rapidly, in a way that is very much out of her character.

"Please calm down, Miss Adler. The reason I cannot answer that question is because that question has no answer."

"So there is no point in living?" Irene asks dejectedly.

"I have never said that, Miss Adler," God replies swiftly "I trust you will understand better what I mean to say after we advance our conversation."

"This is a hoax!" John Watson declares angrily, "If you are truly God, you would have given us all the answers correctly! We are dead, are we not? There are no more divine tests! No more games! We have finished, and if you cannot provide us with all the answers to our questions, you are NO GOD!" Watson bursts into a hoarse shout with the last words.

"Calm down, Doctor." I say quietly, the gears in my head now working at full power. "We are in a highly unique situation. Unfortunately, in this place, it is impossible to rely on any assumptions we form in our living days. We now do not know what is true any longer. However, assuming that we are truly dead, then I trust it is safe to assume that God is our only source of truth?"

I look at God questioningly, hoping against all odds he will confirm my observation.

"Well, Mister Holmes, there lies the problem." God smiles sadly, "You see, I am an Atheist."

_Fuck…Afterlife has just got a whole lot more complicated._


	3. Paradox: the enemy of logic

**Chapter 3**

In the time that Watson has raged and tried to destroy the exit door to the Victorian drawing room, I have been trying to recover from the shock. Irene Adler is looking as if she has just stared Medusa herself in the eyes. Motionless. Stone-face. All the fury from God's lack of answer to her ultimate question has suddenly vanished faster than when I dropped my pipe into London's rat-infested gutter.

_A God who is an atheist…?_

God continues to sit still behind the solid burnt-brown wooden table, stroking his long silvery beard all the while. His facial expression is amused as his eyes track the raving lunatic that was my dear friend, Doctor John Watson, trying to destroy the Mahogany door with a bronze chandelier he found earlier. There is still no dent in the door despite the Modern-Art-like deformation the candleholder has now adopted.

"God, if you really are God, there is a limit to how stupid you think we are," I say as soon as Watson has ceased his rampage for a small breather. "You cannot be a God, and do not believe in yourself. This is a paradox, and does not make sense. If you do not believe in yourself, then you do not exist. However, if you exist, then clearly you are not an Atheist, because you are the living proof that God is real," my speech gets progressively slower as I try to wrap my head around what God means,

"The only logical conclusion is that you are lying, and you are either a God, or an Atheist!"

"Is that so, Mister Holmes?" God replies in the same fragile voice, but with a slight mocking undertone, "After having done so well with the question of time earlier, I must say I am disappointed with your conclusion. Let me ask Miss Adler, then, what do you think?" He finishes before turning to the woman who appears to have recovered from the earlier shock.

Irene looks at me, then looks at God, then looks at Watson as he resumes attacking the poor Mahogany door with his chair. She turns back to God, narrows her eyes, and says very simply, "Fuck you."

_That's the Irene I remember._

God widens his eyes and look at probably the first woman to have sworn at him directly, and literally. He then clears his throat and continues in his old shaking voice, "Well, Mister Holmes, it seems you are the only person who I can hold a proper conversation with at this moment -"

Crack!

Watson seems to have broken the beautifully crafted chair. _Pity._ I think to myself, as God gives a loud audible sigh.

"I see that this conversation will be difficult. If everybody was as enlightened as Mister Gautama and Mister Wittgenstein before dying, afterlife traffic jam would be so easily solved…" God raises his hands up to massage his temples, "I had high hope for you, Mister Holmes, and a part of the reasons I had Mister Watson and Miss Irene present here was to have you help me explain to them."

"Then, kind Sir, please explain." I breathe the words out with gritted teeth. It has been a long time since someone insulted my intelligence. "Explain to me how you can exist without believing in your own existence!"

"Mister Holmes, Mister Holmes…please, be patient. That goes for the both of you as well, Mister Watson, Miss Adler. If I were to explain to you now the reason why I am an atheist, none of you would understand. So let us go with the fact that I am an atheist," God looks at me directly as Watson suddenly sits down on an armchair at the far corner of the room, probably from exhaustion than a calm state of mind.

"That will be your first assumption in this place, Mister Holmes: the fact that I am an atheist." God repeats himself, "Since you seem to think that I am the only source of truth here, I must reveal this aspect of myself to you. I am not to be trusted for truth - But! I believe I can lead you to all the answers of your questions."

"And how would you do that, 'God', if you are not to be trusted for truth?" Irene asks sarcastically.

"By questions, of course, Miss Adler." God answers as he smiles "Questions! My dear mortals, questions are the first step to the answers you all wish to know."

"But you could have explained to us you cannot give us the truth! You do not have to call yourself an atheist just to get the point across!" Watson finds his ability to talk again, "It is both confusing and undermining to your trustworthiness!"

"On the contrary, Mister Watson, it is essential you know I am an 'Atheist'." The old man turns towards the now composed Doctor, "You will understand in time why that is, but although I am not the source of truth here, I shall not lie to you and shall give you as accurate an answer as possible to your question, even if such answers sound unsatisfactory."

"So should I believe that I still cannot choose to go to heaven or hell after this? And should Doctor Watson believe that his friends are in heaven?" I ask, my voice now calm despite the rapid increase in my blood pressure.

_The perk of living after death is I don't need to care about this heart attack thing anymore…_

"I believe you and Mister Watson can, Mister Holmes." God answers swiftly, seemingly pleased I have decided to be less rebellious. "Those are straight forward questions; more so than Miss Irene's."

Finding myself confused and agitated, I realize I have to recover myself as quickly as possible, or I will surely lose this game of afterlife. So, once again, I close my eyes and disappear into the midst of my thoughts.

_So now I do not even have the source of knowledge I require to navigate my way through afterlife… So he does not lie. But then he said he should not be trusted for truth…another paradox…_

Silence blankets the room. Everybody seems to be looking at me now, including Irene Adler.

_Paradox; the enemy of logic. It seems as if God's intention is to cut me off from my last source of life-rope. My observation is useless because this is no longer the physical world. By giving me a series of paradox, He now takes away my long time companion: logic. My arsenal is running empty. It is now only logical – ha, what irony…- to let God leads me down this ludicrous path. It seems I am left with no choice._

"I see," I adjust my focus back to the 'real' world, "it seems my friends and I are left with no choice but to play in your game, old man. The things that have happened to me in this room certainly make me believe in supernatural power, however, I will be my own judge whether you are God or not."

"Here, here!" cries Watson. Irene nods slightly.

"Well, then, Mister Holmes," smiles the old man, "that is quite good enough for the time being. I assure you that, in a few days, you will be convinced of my true identity. Now it seems that you are all very tired, especially Mister Watson. I think it is time we rest; after all, your mental powers can only take so much within a short amount of time. I need you all at full capacity for the discussions we shall hold."

It is true. Despite the anger and the frustration, everybody in the room looks as if they have been through the Chinese water torture.

"Very well," Doctor Watson replies, "how, in the name of all that is holy, which excludes you, can we exit this infernal room?"

_Clearly, Watson's temper has truly grown with age. It's a miracle he managed to find three unfortunate souls to share their beds with him…_

God, for some strange reasons, seems very happy with this question.

"Very good question, Mister Watson, very good question," he says happily, "the travel method in the afterlife is extensively designed so no souls confuse where they truly are with a dream." God's eyes now glint with a strange golden glow, "So, of course, in order to escape this room, you only need to try to wake yourself up. Like this!"

God slaps himself in the face.

…

Silence falls over the room at God's sudden disappearance. Irene again looks as if she has just met Medusa's gaze, while Watson's jaw drops so far I saw the silver tooth he had inserted after a particularly rough fight in one of our adventures. I, on the other hand, has been surprised too many times today to even consider it strange:

_Ah…so that's how it works._

I then slap myself in the face as Watson starts spluttering a series of obscenities unsuitable for even the afterlife.


	4. Hope

**Update**:

_Chapter 1 has been updated._

_Again, I reiterate I am not a writer, but I am a student of philosophy. I will appreciate any comments, negative or positive, that any of you may have._

_This chapter is a bit of a rest, but everything will get more serious from now._

**_Cheers_**

**_/_**

The sting of pain subsides as I am transported into a place resembling a room. My vision is still a blur, before everything comes in focus. Blots of colours that were previously merged together now slowly extract themselves into individual blurs. Mahogany-brown, butter yellow, concrete grey, bed-sheet white. The colours then start to take shape, prompting a window to solidify into focus. Eight panels of glass, split equally between top and bottom. A mahogany frame emerges around the panels like wooden plank breaking the surface of water. The butter yellow takes the position of the wallpaper but scatters and disappears into white in places, reflecting the age of the room.

Now I hear the rain. Beating against the distorted glass panels. I cannot quite see past the downpour. It seems like moving lines of grey in many shades, which is fascinating since even London's rain can still be penetrated by sight.

"Are you enjoying the weather, Mister Holmes?" comes a curious mocking voice of Irene Adler: the woman.

"Yes, I am," I reply as I turn to look back at her stunningly beautiful but mischievous smile, "Miss…Adler? It seems your last marriage did not last for as long as you had wished for in your letter."

"Oh, please, Mister Holmes, let us not dwell in a subject that will bore both you and I," purrs Irene as she moves from the door into what appears to be a Victorian dining room, closing in on me. "Fate has done me a marvellous service, allowing me to share an afterlife with Sherlock Holmes." Her hand is now placed softly on my cheek, which is ashamedly glowing red.

…_And to think she embarrasses me even in death, I truly despise you, God… _

"A service for you, my lady, but it is a disservice for me, I assure you." I speak quickly and pull myself away from her deadly touch.

Irene let out a soft high-pitch giggle appropriate for a group of clueless jewellery-studded old ladies at a royal party. I turn to give her one of my better evil stares, but it seems to make her annoying laughter worse, which prompts me to give up and sit down at the dining table.

"Should I leave the two of you alone?" Watson appears through the door, asking the question with a slight upward curl to his lip.

"Please, do not leave, Doctor, I much prefer your company to hers," I plead as Irene sits down on the chair directly opposite me. Watson follows and I decide to seize the opportunity to change the subject, "So…we are dead."

"How cheery," mutters Irene as she turns her attention towards the rain.

"Yes, Holmes, I trust we are," replies Watson with tired voice, "and to think we have to tolerate that old man after death!...I should have chosen to go to heaven instead, Holmes, not that I do not want to see you," Watson lies back against the chair, an unusual pose for an ex-militia, "or you, Madam Adler, but it is simply too much! I merely want rest and the eternal happiness the Bible promised me!"

"Well, Watson, I believe it is clear holding on to the Bible is rather foolish at this time"

"I know, Holmes, I know. But I hope nonetheless…"

_Hope is a strange thing…_I look at my dear friend as I fall into my own thoughts…_Even in the face of all the evidence against that hope, people still 'hope'. It is another enemy of reason, but also vital to our survival. It is what drives us to survive in the face of impossible odds. But this time, there are no odds; it is now an absolute that the Bible is not real…. My dear Watson, I wonder what thoughts go through your mind when you choose to hope for the impossible. _

I now look down at the wooden table, observing the deep shadowed grooves of the grains.

_Is it simply a malfunction of our brains? Has evolution given us the ability to hope without giving us the controlling valve? I presume humanity has not travelled far enough into the chain of evolution to develop this skill. It is an intriguing thought. We know that our brain is far from perfect. We tend to hurt ourselves with addictions because we cannot control the urges the brain asks of us – gambling, sugar, drugs...I should know. _

_In the same way that we are addicted to drugs and gambling, we are addicted to hope. I wonder if this addiction will bring about the downfall of our race – when all of us hope for the impossible and pursue it, instead of putting in time and effort to look for less attractive alternatives…_

_I can only hope humanity has enough of me to alter this course towards destruction. _

The rain continues pounding the window, but the room is curiously warm. Then out of nowhere, a grey mist rises from the wooden grain of the table and solidifies into three cups of hot tea in front of us. I look around but neither Irene nor Watson seems surprised at this. I raise an eyebrow at Watson.

"Well, Holmes," smirks Watson, "with all the surprises today, I imagine you understand I am too tired to be surprised now."

"Yes, Watson, I do" I say with a chuckle.

We all look at the steaming cups, which now emits a wondrously tempting scent.

"Shall we, gentlemen?" voices Irene succinctly, her eyes darting between the cup and I.

"It may be laid with poison," I bend down to carefully observe the swirling steam rising out of the clear golden burnt-brown liquid.

"Well, Holmes, it is unlikely we can die again now, can we?" laughs Watson as he raises his cup to his mouth.

"Well, then, even if this is no liquor…To the Afterlife, Doctor Watson, Mister Holmes,"

"Aye,"

"Yes, to the Afterlife, Miss Adler…"

I blow on the steam to cool down the first sip, and slowly drink the tea. Irene and Watson follow almost simultaneously. Then a sensation of extreme tiredness overcomes me, and my eyes droop as my mind dims. The last thought I manage to hold rings inside my head.

_I will get you for this, old man…_

Blackness wraps my vision and everything disappears.


	5. The Good, the Evil, and Irene's secret

**Chapter 5**

It can be rather infuriating when the person who sinisterly drugged you is God, as it is unlikely you will get any real revenge. The worse part, however, is that waking up fully rested due to the consequent of being drugged dispels any notion that it was a sinister gesture. This simply reinforces the infuriation further because now you cannot even justifiably hold a grudge.

"I believe you are all well rested?" smiles God.

And that smile…that filthy frustrating fake smile. In my youth, even in spite of my collected composure, I am quite certain the smile would have severed the last string that held back my finely honed boxing skills against his wrinkled face. However, the old man before me appears too unpredictable for me to launch any successful attack. That thought ties me down to the chair; after all, you still feel pain even if you cannot die.

"Ah, then, I shall assume you all are. Now that the formalities are done, let us continue our tiresome but necessary conversation."

"How did we get here?" asks Watson, completely ignoring the old man's earlier comment. He seems confused, but otherwise perfectly refreshed unlike his dishevel state yesterday. His confusion is understandable since we now find ourselves in the Victorian room on the very same chair; even Watson's chair is miraculously fixed and placed back to my left. To my right, Irene remains as cold and distant as ever in the present of the man who claims to be God.

"Another question on the mechanics of the Afterlife I see," God replies looking at Watson, "Well, we can always start with that. Mister Watson, you are here because I had my employees slapped you while the three of you were sleeping. You did not feel the pain because the side effects of the sleeping draught include partial paralysis. I needed you fully rested."

"Why did you drug us?" I ask. God turns a curious brow towards me.

"Well, Mister Holmes, I do not have the time to wait for your social gathering to finish. I wish to terminate this meeting as soon as possible."

"But you said in this place Time does not exist. What is it to you if we spent time talking?"

"Yes, Mister Holmes, but remember your deduction on the question of Time." answers God, "the physical Time of the living world does not exist here, however, the Time that you are experiencing now does exist. Otherwise, we would not be able to hold this very conversation. Now, you can take my word for it or not, that is up to you, but the rule of Time that governs this place is more flexible in nature, manipulative in consistency, and is varied depending on where you are in the Afterlife." God takes a deep breath and continues.

"Gentlemen, I can go into the physics of the Afterlife, however, I trust it is sufficient for now that you know even I have time limit."

"Thus another proof you are not God," says Watson with a scathing voice.

"If you say so, Mister Watson, now, since we are on the subject of Afterlife, does anyone have anymore question?"

Admitting defeat, I take the opportunity to ask the question that has been on my mind for a while since entering the Afterlife.

"How come one has the chance to choose either heaven or hell, should that not be your decision?"

"That is a good question, Mister Holmes," God breaks into a wide smile, "let me then answer you with a question. If you were me, how would you choose which soul to be categorized into either Heaven or Hell?"

"By good and evil, I would presume," I answer instinctively.

"Well, Mister Holmes, that is the problem. What is good and what is evil?"

It seems as if a lightening has struck inside my head.

_What is good and evil? What an obvious, yet perplexing, question. On the surface it seems so simple. We seem to know that which is good and that which is bad almost instinctively. But there are some situations where it is truly difficult to determine what is truly good and what is truly evil. Is lying evil if it serves a good purpose? Is murdering one life justifiable if it saves two? Hmm…_

_So I see the difficulties, but surely, one can sift the obvious from the muddy grey area of good and evil with the sieve of common sense._

After a moment of thought, I look directly at God and say:

"I will admit I cannot categorize the world into good and evil. There are much too many murky waters for that. However, you can surely categorize the majority of the people! There are still far too many rapists, murderers, and corrupters in the living world who commit crime out of greed and lust. Can you not send those people to hell? There are also saints. Those who devote their lives to saving others, by charity or otherwise, should be granted automatic access to heaven, should they not?"

"Well, let us focus on the evil for now, Mister Holmes. What you have just said to me is that if a person commit a crime with an impure intention of greed and lust, he should be subjected to Hell, correct?"

"What an obvious deduction! Holmes, how are you still lending your ears to this old fool?" cries Watson.

"My dear Doctor, since we cannot escape this room, we may as well have entertaining conversations." I give Watson a small smile. It is true. I am now uninterested in solving the mysteries of the Afterlife since neither my logic nor my observation skill will provide any useful answer. Besides, this conversation is truly thought provoking. It would be a shame if Watson interjects every few sentences.

"And yes, old man, that is exactly what I am saying."

"Excellent. Mister Holmes, then please consider this situation. In an ancient empire of old, it is a serious crime to look upon the face of the king. However, one day a merchant from faraway land thought he would make money if he could look upon the face of the king and commit it to his memory. He intended to sell the information for 100 pieces of gold. In your view, Mister Holmes, does he deserve to go to hell for such act? Does he deserve eternal pain and suffering for breaking the law for money? He, after all, committed a crime with an impure intention."

"Of course not! That is a ridiculous law designed to impose authorities on the general population. It is an entirely different case to rape and murder!"

"Yet, they both work on the same basic principle, Mister Holmes. Evil occurs when one commits a crime for greed and lust. That is what you have said. Could you be more accurate, then? Should I only include rape and murder as evil? What of theft, adultery, or dishonesty?"

Despite my increasing frustration, my curiosity grows with his questions. It is truly a curious subject, and I decide I must take my time to think…I lower my eyes from the man in front of me and pull the blinds to the secret room of thoughts. I enter the theatre of my mind, and call the actors of my imagination together:

A man walks onto the stage…

_Here enters a rapist. He rapes. Why does he rape? What is the most evil intention of raping? Lust. Of course, it must be lust. He lacks the control over his own body. He lets himself be evil._

A chain jumps out of the black wooden floor and wraps around the man holding him to the ground. A second man walks on.

_Here enters a murderer. He murders. Why does he murder? What is the most evil intention of murder? Greed. Pleasure. Both must be equally evil, but those who murder for pleasure may be more so. _

Another chain jumps; another man tied. The next man walks on…

_Here enters a thief. He steals. Why does he steal? What is the most evil intention of stealing? Greed. But to compare a murderer to a thief is to compare a hungry child to Moriarty. No. A thief is not as evil as a murderer. The fact that he risks arrests from earthly means is enough for his punishment._

On the imaginary stage inside my mind, the thief laughs and walks to the back stage whilst the rapist and the murderer are chained down to the varnished black floor. Spotlights shine from above them; their faces sunken.

_Well deserved…_

_Here enters an adulterer. She cheats. Why does she cheat? What is the most evil intention of cheating? Lust. She lacks the control over her sacred vows. She lets herself be evil. Yet, to compare a rapist and an adulterer is to compare an evil criminal to a child who lacks self-control. No. Adultery, although horrible, does not deserve eternal suffering. The fact that her husband may never trust her should be enough as punishment. Rapist deserves more._

Now the adulterer danced out of the stage, and the ambient lights go off leaving two spotlights shining over the two who have committed unforgivable sins.

_Does this mean only rape and murder are deserving of hell? No, I must bring back the thief._

Two gigantic men wearing black then drag out the thief from the backstage. The thief tries to squirm away from their grips like a snake trying to escape a hawk's talons…

_Here enters a thief. He steals. But he does not steal like a pickpocket; he steals from a man's house. He robs the man of all of his earthly possessions. He knows the man to be dying and wanting to give whatever left to his struggling daughter. He steals those possessions while the man watches from his dying bed – torturing his soul until the moment he draws his last breath._

A massive chain breaks from the ground, rising more ominous and terrible than its cousins, then slaps down onto the thief, crushing into the man with a strength that does not permit the man to do anything more than breathe. The thief is tied to the ground. His crime is unforgivable. The consequence adds to the price of theft. An understanding comes to me with this chain.

Then I conclude:

_It is not only the intention, but also the consequence._

_If the criminal knows the consequence of their actions will hurt another significantly, and they commit the crime with impure intentions, then they deserve to go to hell. _

I open my eyes and look into the wise face of the man in front of me. I state my conclusion:

"Evil depends not only on impure intention, but also on the weight of the consequences on the ones who has been committed against."

"Very good, Mister Holmes," God claps his hands, which I suspect is a sarcastic gesture rather than a heartfelt one, "Now that we have that principle, let us reinforce this notion with another scenario-question:

Imagine an adulterer who committed adultery for lust and caused her husband to become a drunk to deal with his sorrow. Then a day came by and he saw his wife kissing another man. Having lost his job that very day, and having lost his senses with the alcohol, he lost his temper and murdered the man. In this case, how should I proceed? Shall I send them both to hell? Or should I forgive their sins and blame it on the mother-nature and misfortune?"

"I know!" Watson interjects excitedly before I manage to speak aloud my answer, "Yes, it is an unfortunate event. However, for the wife, she did not foresee the consequence of this murder. Yet, for the husband, although he'd foreseen the consequences, his intention was clouded. Following Holmes deduction, neither satisfies the condition for true evil where both the intention and the consequence must be evil. Therefore, neither deserves eternal suffering in hell. Their risk of being punished in their living days will be enough misery for their crimes!"

"Excellent, Mister Watson, it seems now we have a more solid definition to distinguish evil deserving of hell, and evil deserving of earthly punishment."

Watson seems satisfied with this development. It is the first time God has acknowledged Watson's opinion as not entirely wrong. However, the characteristic golden glint in God's eyes has not disappeared. It seems the question and answer session is not yet concluded.

"Now this brings us onto the next problem, gentlemen," God announces with a relaxed smile, "Miss Adler, may I request your help for this by informing your friends how come you are divorced?"

Irene's face drained white. It is not the white that shows fear or cowardice. It is the shade of white that rivals the snow and the sun. It is the colour of a face hiding a storm of panic within.

"Irene?" I ask uncertainly. To see the woman who has beat me in my own game so utterly shocked is unnerving. I look at God who continues watching Irene intently.

"…I have no obligation to say anything," hisses Irene with a whisper.

"Miss Adler, it is inevitable that Mister Watson and Mister Holmes will come to know this truth sooner or later. I see no reason for you to hide the fact any longer."

"Irene, what nonsense is that man trying to tell us?" I ask her more forcefully this time. My mind is racing. One possibility seems the most likely. However, it is a possibility I do not wish to accept.

Irene turns to look at me. Her face is a sculpture of white marble, expressionless beyond belief. Yet, her eyes reflect a mingled mix of fear and guilt. There seems to be tears, but I cannot be sure. Then she breathes in deeply, and says in a whisper quieter than the wind.

"I murdered him, Mister Holmes. I murdered my husband because he planned to murder you."


	6. Selfishly Selfless or Selflessly Selfish

**Chapter 6**

There are many rumours circulating the living world about how pleasant the afterlife really is. So far, however, those rumours are depressingly wrong. Afterlife at present is like being drowned in a river of mysteries where everything you hold to be true spins out of you by the force of the afterlife current. God truly has a way to screw with us.

_What if he is screwing with me…?_

I peer into Irene's eyes to search for the lies behind them, as I would do in my living days. That stops almost instantly, however, as I realize the sincerity of her feelings. Irene now turns away from me and lower her head, eyes closed. A single drop of tear glide down the side of her nose, converging into a visible form at the tip, and slowly become a round droplet falling into her lap.

I put my questions aside and turn towards God, determined not to let the heart wrenching sight disturb my cool composure.

"Will you enlighten me how this illustrate the problem?" I ask with raised eyebrows, "As Watson and I have said before, although Irene knows the consequence of her action, her intent was pure. That is hardly deserving of hell."

"Well, Mister Holmes, is her intent truly pure?" God sits back with hands crossing one another on the table, "she murdered her husband not because she wanted to save a life, Mister Holmes. Both you and I know that very fact; Miss Irene Adler is hardly a saint. No, Mister Holmes, she chose to save you because she holds a strong attachment towards you. She chose to trade her husband's life for yours."

"But she saved my life! If her husband was evil, he deserved nothing less."

"A life for a life, Mister Holmes. Her husband planned to murder you because Moriarty had his hands tied. He was about to lose all his possessions if he did not have you murdered. Miss Adler knew this fact very well."

"Nonetheless, her motive was better than, let's say, a rapist's. Surely, you cannot compare one with another!"

"Well, Mister Holmes, what if a rapist rapes because he loves his victim? Even if such emotion is twisted with lust, his intention is pure, is it not? According to your conclusion, if the intention is pure and the consequence terrible, he does not deserve hell, but deserve earthly punishment."

Seething, I stand up abruptly, and stare into the cold golden eyes of God.

_How dare he? How can he compare Irene's intention to a rapist's? What is this nonsense? _

"Mister Holmes…Use your brain. Use your logic. Use your deduction!" God says slowly in an uncharacteristic authoritative voice. "Do not let your emotion consume your mind, mortal man! You have spent your life honing your deductive skill: use it."

I remain standing, and then collect myself, aware that both Watson and Irene are looking at me, stunned. Sherlock Holmes losing control? For a woman? This shocking fact seems to be a landing blow against everybody but the old man in front of me. Breathing out loudly, I lower myself down into my seat.

_Fine. I shall think._

Once again I pull all focus into my mind, blacking out everything else. I imagine myself underwater, down in the deeper region of the ocean where light barely penetrates and life chooses to leave unoccupied. I need concentration. Under water I hear no sound and see naught but the rich dark blue colour that disappears into nothingness in front of me. I imagine the water pressure closing in, compressing me into myself; creating absolute concentration…

_What is a pure intention? The old man makes the argument that, although Irene saved my life, she did it for a selfish reason. But what is a 'selfish' reason? Are we not all 'selfish' in a sense? We love and protect our children so our genes pass on from generation to generation. We play nice with each other to forge cooperation within the specie and survive the harsh world. We cheat, lie, and fight each other to make sure we maximize our chances of passing on genetics and surviving in a closed social group. Evolution works because we are selfish. _

_We as a specie needs to survive and breed, we are hard-wired as such. However, we can also choose to go against our instinct for an idea – religion, patriotism, or relationships. _

_Our brain is hard-wired from an evolutionary perspective. But what makes us prioritize something else over survival and breeding? What makes a soldier risk his life for his comrades? What makes a woman take that religious path, which forbids her from having a child?_

_What makes a woman murder to save someone whom she does not know would reciprocate her feelings?_

I open my eyes and turn to look at my partner. Before he can respond, I quickly relay to him my thinking process and my question…

"…So Watson, what am I missing here? Is this simply another of our brain's mystery?"

Watson takes everything in with a perplexed expression. Then, surprisingly, he closes his eyes and lowers his head – in the exact way I do when I try to concentrate…As serious as this situation is, I cannot help but pity the Doctor's lack of originality. Then Watson starts speaking, still with eyes closed:

"Well, Holmes, what you are saying is a very Darwinian idea: that all our decisions can be reduced to a two simple motives: sex and survival. Therefore, your confusion lies in why we make decisions that do not make evolutionary sense. However, my friend, you must remember our brain is not perfect. The developments of neuroscience and psychology in recent years have shown us as such. Unfortunately, most of the pre-20st century philosophers lack these knowledge, leading to a muddled understanding of human's decision making process."

I take in the knowledge and try to be attentive to the details Watson is providing me. Although it is true that my deductive skill is sharper than my college's, a man can only hold so much knowledge in his memory. I know Watson has been highly involved in the new science of the mind in the years before his demise, and it seems to be worthwhile.

"Let us look at money, Holmes. Money is a curious thing. When a person has money, he has the means to sustain his family and therefore help with the continuation of his genes into the next generation. In this case, money is a mean to and end. However, there are times when money becomes an end in itself. For example, a person may be so blinded by the greed for money that he loses his relationships and time that would have been better spent to further his mating possibility. And what is he doing it all for, Holmes? Money!"

Watson now opens his eyes and looks directly at me.

"That is the very same situation with most of our decisions that do not make evolutionary sense, Holmes. Our brain is not capable of keeping the final goals of survival and breeding. The feeling of romantic love is designed by nature to make a person try to capture and mate another who he or she is in love with. However, this does not guarantee success. But love has already become an end in itself instead of the mean. Consequently, we come to want love more than increasing our chances of mating. That is engrained in our emotions. Hence, a woman may wait her entire life for a man she may never have."

"The mind can be distinguished into two parts, Holmes. One is conscious and another is unconscious. Our need to breed and survive is usually ingrained in the unconscious mind. However, our conscious mind can also influence our unconscious mind. If the conscious mind knows that something is good, it will slowly adapt the unconscious mind to want that something. Let us take money again. If a man thinks that money will make him more attractive towards a woman, then his conscious mind will force him to search for money. Over time, this conscious search becomes unconscious and so he will have a feeling of want for a piece of paper that is money. Therefore, the conscious mind influences the unconscious mind."

"That is the same case with a soldier willing to die for his comrades, Holmes. It is the morality of that soldier, which makes him die for his comrades. Although his unconscious brain may be screaming 'Survive' 'Survive', his conscious thought knew that he had to sacrifice or his friends will die. This act of selflessness, however, comes from the need for us to survive in a society. The soldier probably has this idea of must-do-good hammered into him as part of the society's guideline of what is 'good'. Our conscious brain, in this case, does not want the body to survive if the soldier's comrades must die. This is because the conscious brain has been forged by morality to choose others before him. Holmes, as horrible as this sound, in a way, this selflessness is a selfish decision based on what the morality dictates. The solder performs a selfless act exactly because he has a selfish need to fulfill his morality, which has itself engrained into his unconsciousness."

"But why does he need to follow his morality?" Irene asks simply, her stony face now softens from curiosity. Her single tear left no trace.

"Because of self-image, milady. Self-image increases the chances of one's survival and mating possibility in any given society. And self-image is directly linked to the morality of a man in most society. If you follow the morality a society dictates, you are more likely to be successful in mating and surviving in that society. Morality is especially essential in the functioning of a social group; it is the soft power that allows humans in to live together in harmony. However, in the soldier's case, morality that leads to self-image becomes an end in itself, rather than a mean to the survival of his gene or society."

"But Watson, what of those who are without morality but thrive in our society? They still manage self-image very well without having a moral compass."

"Well, Holmes, morality is simply one of the many parts of what make up a self-image. We are talking about wealth, manner, tradition, and so on. However, in the case of the soldier, he most likely relies on morality as the main guiding principle to unconsciously maintain self-image all his life. Consequently, morality is responsible for his untimely death."

I now observe Watson carefully. His theory actually makes sense, which is rare in most cases. There has always been a problem with understanding selfless behavior when, logically, individuals survive because of selfishness. Yet, I wonder…

"My dear Watson, then would you say that if our intention is born from this imperfection of our brain, that intention is pure? It seems very unlikely that our brain is so imperfect that it will choose to die simply to maintain self-image."

"No Holmes, that is only because you overestimate our brain to form logical thoughts unconsciously. Let me explain this with the last example you have given me: a nun who shuns her chance of having a child for a religious purpose."

Watson now takes out a pipe from his jacket, lighting it in the same style that I normally do when relaxing.

_He really needs originality…_

"The reason for her illogical act is because she believe in an idea, Holmes. She believes that heaven is her ultimate reward. The important thing is here: she wants to be happy, she wants a perfect afterlife, and heaven promises perfection and eternal happiness. She believes that if she follows that path, she will be happy regardless of whether she will pass on her genes to the next generation or not. Happiness, Holmes, is the key word here.

Now, before we go further, I need you to understand how conventional neuroscience explains the feeling of happiness. The actual feeling of happiness is very complicated, of course. But for the purpose of this conversation, let us assume that happiness in this case refers the good feeling someone gets when he or she win a lottery, or having her love reciprocated, or when a child receives a new toy. You get the idea.

Firstly, you must realize that our brain is not a stone; it is an organism. It changes everyday, and in science, we call this neuroplasticity. The part of the brain that influences our action is called the reward system, which is unconscious. If we see something that will reward us, then this system will fire a hormone that makes us want to do that very thing, causing the feeling of happiness. Of course, the thing that rewards us is usually linked with increased chance of sex and the survival of our gene.

However, Holmes, the unconscious brain does not always know what is rewarding and what is not. It depends on the sensation of the body and the conscious brain to tell the unconscious brain what is rewarding. Therefore, this part of the brain changes continuously so that it adapts to different situations and environments. It makes sure that, in a given surrounding over time, we will take the most rewarding decision. This is why, given time, the conscious mind can change the unconscious mind.

That is the problem with the rewarding system, Holmes: sometimes we unknowingly rig our brain so it thinks things such as morality or money are rewarding. That is why, if our reward system has been distorted to this extent, we feel good when we follow our moral choices or when we earn money. Problem is when those choices actually go against our primal needs, the brain cannot adapt instantly because the reward system takes time to adapt to new environment."

Watson finishes and blows a cloud of scented tobacco into the air. He looks at me again and concludes:

"So yes, my dear friend, our brain is imperfect because we consciously and unconsciously seek happiness. Was the soldier happy when he sacrificed himself? Probably not, but I am sure he felt good about it and died with peace. His conscious brain forces him to do such thing because, over time, he has built his brain to feel good when making easier moral choices."

"Very good, Mister Watson, very good indeed!" God now smiles the widest smile I have ever seen. "You have simplified the process of the brain, Mister Watson, but just enough to explain what drives human decisions. Excellent. You are outperforming Mister Holmes today, congratulations!"

Watson now gives me a smug face. It is a true wonder he swore God to be his mortal enemy merely yesterday.

"Now, Mister Holmes, with this new information Mister Watson has provided you, will you revise our current discussion of what an impure intention is?"

"I trust it is now quite obvious. As much as I hate to say it, Irene's intention and a rapist's intention are based on the same mechanics of the brain that is designed to pass on one's gene from one generation to the next. Both intentions are influenced by the so-called reward system that leads to a feeling of wanting to do something, crime or otherwise. Therefore, to call either one of them a pure or impure intention is paradoxical as both is one and the same: an intention."

That is hard to admit to God, but during Watson's lecture, I have come up with a solution that will differentiate Irene's noble act from a rapist's disgusting one. I smile and lean forward, fingers crossing each other, and continue speaking.

"However, even if Irene's intention may be based on the same region of the brain as a rapist's, her intention is what allows humanity to survive as a group while the rapist's will only destroy it. Her feeling of attachment towards me is part of human behavior that allows group survival; she saves me because another intends to kill me. This will hold up in many courts of law and minimizes her sentence should she receive one. However, a rapist's inability to control his urges can only cause discontent, and unless he is punished, the society will only descend into destruction from non-cooperation."

"Yes, Mister Holmes, that is exactly what I hope you would conclude. Of course, that leads me to my original question: how can I decide who should go to Hell and who should go to Heaven?"

"Well," Watson speaks up at this point, probably feeling he is having a streak of genius insights that normally avoids him, "to build on Holmes' logic, can you not use the outcome as the judge? If an outcome of the rapist's act generally undermines the survival of the human's society as a whole, he should go to hell. On the other hand, Irene's outcome actually saved Holmes and can be forgiven from divine punishment because it does not undermines the survival of the society."

God looks directly at Watson with a slight smile. The smile gets wider and he bursts out laughing, mockingly. This forces Watson to wipe the superior smile off his face and glare at the old man, who now looks down at Watson like a father looking at a rebellious and naïve child. I suspect this action will revive Watson's vendetta against God once again.

"Well, well, Mister Watson. It was my hope that it would be Mister Holmes to fall into my trap, but it seems you have become too arrogant and commit the mistake instead of your friend. Now, now, please do not make such scary face! Let us have some tea and further discuss this issue."

Three steaming cups of tea appear on the wooden table in front of us. I narrow my eyes in suspicion.

"I promise you there is no drug this time, Mister Holmes. I merely want everybody here to relax. It has been a very distressing discussions thus far, and it will continue to be so later on."

Nobody touches the tea.

"Well, it is your choice," sighs the old man. "Then let us continue with our discussion. Mister Watson, building on your theory, let me give you a situation…"

_This is going to be a long day. I may as well take a drink._

Of course, rum or whiskey would be better, but my choices are limited in this mysterious place. I look up at God's table where three cups are arranged in order. Then, to the horror of my friends, I stand up and take the cup of tea into my hands. I shrug and sit down, slowly sipping the tea.

/

**I have rewritten Chapter 5 and 6 because I've just realised Irene's character has become way too simplistic. Because I needed all the characters in this book to symbolise a different aspect of human flaws, Irene needs to appear more mysterious and less emotional.**

**This chapter gets into a serious discussion on good and evil. Can we truly judge whether an intention is inherently good or bad? Or can we only judge it from the consequence? This chapter seeks to answer the first part of that question. If you cannot understand this chapter, it may be that my writing is not clear enough. Please let me know in the review if you have any questions regarding the logic or the science in this chapter.**

**A useful book to read is "The Selfish Gene" by Richard Dawkins, which will address the primary points in this chapter. However, I have tried to go deeper into the subject and explain the actual neuroscience and the concepts behind why a person is motivated to do something. **

**Just so it's clear, I am no student of Dawkins' simplistic view on Atheism. Later chapters will explore my own ideas on this matter. If you have read this far, I believe you are truly interested in philosophy and the answers to why God is atheist and what is the meaning of life. I promise that the answer will be worth it and logical. It will not be a trick that says 'I'm joking' or 'I don't know'. The mystery will be answered.**

**Thanks for reading.**


	7. Moral Relativism

**Chapter 7**

God looks at me with a different gaze. Before, it was a look of a teacher towards a child, full of pity and superiority; now, it seems to have a certain respect mingled within. I suspect this new treatment is a response to me letting go of my ego. I no longer treat the afterlife as seriously as I had, but I have relaxed into the situation and now fully able to exercise my non-prejudiced thoughts to all the issues at hand – which is expressed by drinking the tea without the worry of getting drugged.

_Either that, or God simply thinks me a fool and I am mistaking that respectful look with a look of a predator to its soon to be victim…Never mind, the old man is harder to read than Irene…_

Watson, however, still looks at me with mixed horror. An intelligent and educated man, he nonetheless lacks an ability to let go of his own ego and accept things as they are rather than things as they should be. That has always been Watson's flaw: his self-righteousness. The fact that he does not understand my act of drinking the tea shows his naïve resistance against an unknown force.

_In the face of an unknown, we must learn to observe rather than act on experience._

Irene, as usual, turns quiet and contributes little to the discussion. I dare say she do not truly care for any of the issues being discussed.

"Ah hem," God coughs a politician cough to draw the attention of the room "let us continue our discussion, shall we? Picking up from where we left off, Mister Watson, I ask you now to consider this situation: Far away in the land of the East 100 years into your future, a street gang has become a major crime in the city of Tokyo. As part of the police response, an undercover secret police is sent to infiltrate the gang. The problem is this: in order to attain a high position in the gang, the secret officer must prove himself to be a true criminal and must either kill a man or rape a woman – there is no other option. After a long deliberation, the officer chose to rape a woman. Now Mister Watson, in this instance, is rape 'evil'?"

The doctor looks horror struck with the strange question, his face screwed into tight wrinkles.

"Mister Watson, your opinion is that rape is an act of evil regardless of the intention because rape does not encourage justice in a society; now I present to you a situation where rape could potentially lead to a stabilization of the society in question. What do you say? Is rape 'evil'? Does the end justify the mean?"

Watson looks up and leans back into the chair, throwing up his hands into the air as a sign of defeat, and sighs loudly before starting to speak.

"I do not know. Yes, possibly. But such act seems extremely selective. In this situation, rape, although an evil act generally, must be used to achieve a higher cause."

…'_extremely selective'…I see_

I signal Watson to be quiet and look to God, my solution to the problem at the tip of my tongue.

"Old man, you have given us an unfair situation. The scenario with the police and the gang is highly hypothetical. In reality, there are possibly ways to infiltrate the gang without resorting to committing such an evil act. Even if the situation is absolutely true, it does not detract evilness from the act of rape. That is the same with taking a life to save ten. These scenarios are named 'necessary evil' for a reason. No, sir, we must look to the logical model of how a society is composed. In any social situation, rape and murder usually results in a breakage of the very fabric that holds any society together: collaboration and justice. Therefore, these are acts of evil in absolute. Morality is not a relative concept. It is absolute. Any justifications of the acts do not deem it 'not evil', but 'necessary evil', and thus we should minimize this act as much as possible to preserve the balance and survival of the basic societal values that lead to the survival of a complex society such as this fictional place you call 'Tokyo'."

I pause for dramatic effect:

"Therefore, regardless of the outcome, rape is an act of absolute evil."

I finish with a smile on my face and with Watson looking at me - faith and awe restored.

"Well, now Mister Holmes, all that is very exciting and logical. Well done on reigniting the fire in this talk, truly. However, I must apologize in advance for pointing out a singular flaw that will demolish your argument, Mister Holmes. And that flaw is your assumption that rape and murder undermines the survival of a basic society. Miss Adler, please tell us what you think is a society?"

"A group of people living together?" Irene replies carelessly.

"Very much so, now can you enlighten us with your thoughts on what's the mechanics that hold this group of people together? What kind of laws will there need to be?" God presses on, his left hand holding up to gesture Watson and I to be silent. It seems he thinks Irene holds the answer to this logical conundrum.

"Well, I should assume they would establish their own laws and customs? Why do you care about such a boring subject? People have a way of figuring out how to live with one another, one way or the other."

"Yes, yes, they do. But Miss Adler, please try to expend some of your time thinking here. Would these laws and customs be universal? If you put ten groups of people in ten different islands, will you expect them to come up with their own rules?"

"As intriguing as you three boys find these questions fascinating, I must confess you are boring me to death, if that is even possible anymore. These are imagination, not reality. We don't live in a world where new societies without history pop up everywhere! Unless you wipe the memory of everybody on the islands, they are bound the use the customs and laws they are adapted to! A French man will use the French law; an American will use the American law. What you are asking is the same as asking me what will happen to the earth without the moon! I can speculate, but never will I be able to give you a satisfactory answer without actually destroying the moon."

Irene finishes the sentence with her hands up in the air, eyes rolling in mock tiredness. She then sits back and crosses her arms and legs, signaling her desire to stop speaking, as if the question of morality does not concern her.

…_How carefree._

God looks somewhat stunned by Irene's outburst but then smirk to himself and turns to Watson and I, "And there you have it, gentlemen. Even Miss Adler sees the problem with your argument."

Irene looks confused at this inference.

"Yes, Miss Adler. You have impressed me with how fast you have grasped the flaw of my question! It is precisely the fact that the question is not reality but imagination! It is a highly hypothetical situation. Mister Holmes also pointed this out earlier with my Tokyo example. It is simply too hypothetical to draw a real common trait! Now, Mister Holmes, can you derive from this why I have singled out your assumption as flawed?"

I drive my hand through my hair and draw in a deep breath. Then I ask Watson for his tobacco and lit my pipe that strangely appears in my inner pocket as soon as I wished for it – convenience of the afterlife…

Placing the tip of the pipe between my lips, I begin the motion of breathing the smoke into my lungs. I need the full burn of the tobacco to sooth my mind. Expecting to cough up the smoke, I pleasantly find that without real lungs in the afterlife, I can feel all the pleasure of the scent without the pain of human body reflexes. It seems there is an upside to every horrible situation.

I then close my eyes and let the crackling fire of my pipe die out. The sweet floral scent slowly dissipates into the room…

_Where is the flaw? Is it not obvious that rape and murder undermines society as a whole? When you murder a man, another will exact his revenge on you, throwing us into a spiral of war between the two parties. When you rape a woman, her partner or her family will demand justice for that disgusting act._

_This idea is established in the new subject of Game Theory! It is a tit-for-tat game that happens in any society. That is how we learn to live with each other and form a social group strong enough to survive the harsh world! Similarly, rape and murder are acts that result in a zero-sum game, where someone wins and another lose. When you murder, someone most likely will lose something. Such act creates conflict and revenge must be taken to restore the tit-for-tat balance. That revenge is justice. Morality therefore must follow this logic since the very function of morality is to create a social environment that supports a survivable society._

_So where is the flaw?! What is this with 'hypothetical situation' and 'real situation'? What has Irene captured that I have not?_

I take another deep breath from the pipe, enjoying the burning sensation, and then gently let the smoke seeps out of my body. I need to recollect my logic and understand what the old man is trying to imply.

_Real situation…hypothetical situation…real…hypothesis…_

_Dammit. I see. How could I miss such simple logic? How could I let theory blinds me to reality…_

_Game theory is like a world in a laboratory. Everything is controlled. I assume two players that will act rationally. Assume the game does not have other factors such as the environment. Assume that rape and murder only have negative outcomes in all simulations of the game. _

_Assumptions! Since when was I a slave to this chain called 'assumption'?_

_I should have recalled the strange Islamic law of the East where a raped woman will be murdered by her family to preserve honour. Religion forces them to murder. If they did not, their family will forever be branded as not honorable and decimate their social status. Killing their own daughter will be a mercy to both herself and the family in this society…_

_And I forget the tribal society in the land near the old prison called New Guinea. I forget the infamous story of how the tribe will kill their elders when they are useless and eat them for food…_

_And I forget the sad truth many societies see women as assets. Rape does not even enter their vocabulary when talking about women. To take a vengeful action on rape would destroy the balance that hold these societies together…_

_Sad, but true. Can you blame a man for raping if he does not know the gravity of his act or the pain of his victim?_

_The reality is that at any given moment in time, there will always be no 'model' society where we can judge which individual action is considered essential for the survival or for the destruction of a society. Each individual group will evolve their own laws and customs based on factors such as environment in the case of the New Guinea tribe, or religion in the case of the East-landers._

_How horrible is this world…How sad is this reality…How impossible an act to judge an action good or evil…Morality is, unfortunately, relative. Watson was correct. We merely find an action good or evil depending on what our society has taught us to be the case. Neuroplasticity is truly a terrifying notion._

I open my eyes and slowly relay the painful logical truth to the room.

Silence blankets the space after I finish my speech. Both Irene and Watson seem shocked by this revelation, although I see within Irene a look of disbelief. It is her next action that confirms my fear when I see her disappointed expression as she turns away from me. It cuts my soul deeper and faster than the reaper's scythe. Watson simply looks confounded, trying to follow my deduction in his own speed.

"Well, well, Mister Holmes. That is the conclusion I had hoped you would come up with, and hopefully, you see now why it is truly an impossible feat to judge a person as good or evil. Unfortunately, everybody is selfish. Unfortunately, no action will absolutely result in a good or a bad outcome. Good and evil do not exist. They are merely concepts constructed by human."

God speaks with a clear and cold cut neutral voice. His golden eyes look at each of us in turn, boring through our struggle to grasp this new concept.

"So why do you have a place called 'hell' at all?" Irene asks with a strained voice.

"Why indeed? Miss Adler, to answer that question, let us all go to Hell." The golden eyes sparkle brightly as the old man smiles ear to ear.

_Of course, I should have guessed this was coming…_

* * *

**This chapter is rather mind boggling. Again, any questions or concerns with this philosophical point may be a result of my writing, so please let me know in the review. This is actually a rather popular moralistic view called 'moral relativism', and it has its proponents as well as enemies. There is an argument that says we need morality to reach a Utopic vision of the world, and therefore we can define morality according to this Utopic vision. The problem, of course, is what is this Utopic vision...?**

**Some readers may not have encountered 'Game Theory' before, so I advise these readers to read up about it, it is a truly useful and fascinating subject. I recommend reading a section in the book "Critical Mass" by Philip Ball. I think one or two chapters are devoted to the introduction of Game Theory and its significance in sociology. You don't need to worry about the Maths unless you want to become an economist or a strategist in a big organisation, in which case - read up.**

**If you know Game Theory, you will also know that Sherlock shouldn't really know about it since it was formulated after WWII, and only became well known much later. So you will notice that a lot of the science and theories I use in this story will not correlate to the timeline of Sherlock Holmes. However, in later chapters I will explain how the characters come to know all these knowledge about neuroscience and such. Hint: Time in the Afterlife is a very weird entity. **

**Anyways, I hope you enjoy the story, any review will be appreciated**


	8. Hell

Chapter 8: Hell

We walk down a long medieval stone corridor. Torches line along the sides, flickering flames fight off just enough shadows. I glance back at the wooden door connecting to the Victorian room we had just left. The nostalgia of fresh memory still lingers with the question of morality on my mind; also on Irene's it seems, given the constant cold looks she sends stabbing towards me. I cannot blame her. I can hardly believe my own deduction. I spent my life trying to do away with the evils in London, only to find out that there is no absolute evil. In a way, all I have achieved was to make the society a little safer. I was not even doing 'good', in the sense that good does not exist either. I simply existed – driven by my own desire to satisfy my own 'selfish' moral compass.

_Dark corridor suited to dark thoughts…_

We continue walking. The air seems a tad lighter now, less humid, more difficult to breath. Chills start to prick my exposed hands and face, my ears squeezed by an icy grip. Time stretches with space. In a matter of seconds, stone walls elongated away in front and behind us. Our footsteps pace slower; the echoes even more so. It is a strange sensation. Like walking in water and seeing through impossibly shaped spectacle lenses fused together.

Then we reach the door. Except it is not quite a door, more an 'entrance'. Blocks of stones that line our tunnel merge into natural rock that curves jaggedly in front of us to form a cave opening. Inside, layers of dead vines filled up to the mouth of the cave, blocking our vision.

"So here we are, Holmes. The very gate of hell itself. What a woefully shit situation we have plunged ourselves into this time."

I chuckle.

"Indeed, Watson, indeed."

One by one, we file in, brushing aside strings of ropey vines. Some drops right into my face, others blocking my vision. I take one more step, then another. Slowly, I lose sight of Watson, Irene, and God. But I still hear the quiet shuffling around me.

The walk continues for five minutes. Then ten minutes. Then hours eventually pass by before all the shuffling sound grows distant and seizes altogether. I stop.

"Watson?" I call out.

No reply.

"Irene? Old man?" I try again.

No reply.

There are times I truly wonder what is the point of all this mystery if I am already dead. It is as if God or whoever that controls the afterlife purposefully make my life difficult just for the fun of it.

"Well, Mister Holmes, how else can we get any fun around here?"

I recognise that voice. It is the same mocking voice I heard when I first found myself in front of the three doors.

"So confusing lost souls is fun for you?" I humour the guy, while desperately searching for the source of the sound. "Don't you get to do whatever you want in the afterlife? What's the point of using us for your entertainment?"

"It is precisely because we get whatever we want in the afterlife, Mister Holmes, that we are doing this. You see, everything in the afterlife is too easy for us, over time, it gets boring. You little souls are the anomaly: the unexpected."

"Who are you people?" I ask again, trying to keep the voice talking so I can walk towards it.

"Some call us angels, others call us devils. In fact, though, we are just us. Nothing more, nothing less. We don't call ourselves anything. We occasionally travel in your dreams. Sometimes, we appear in your waking mind. But we are nowhere, and we are everywhere. We are not we. But to talk to you, we must be we…"

_The guy must be going crazy…_

I do not mind, however, as long as he keeps talking. I walk nearer and nearer to the source of the voice.

"Do you understand, Mister Holmes? Or are you still too thick and need God to guide your hand?"

I am closer now. Nearly there.

_Keep talking, you imbecile._

"We have no name, we have no we. We simply exist, because you exist, because we exist, because you exist, because we exist, because you exist, because we exist, because you exist…."

The voice repeats itself like a broken mechanical man. But that's good. I am only few steps now…

"Because we exist, because you exist, because your friends exist, because Mister Watson exists, because we exist, because Miss Adler exists, because you exist, because God exist, because you exist!"

The voice stops suddenly. I stop too. The only sound now comes from the noise of dead vines brushing against each other. And that noise gets quieter and quieter until the silence becomes so complete I can only hear my breath.

Then I detect a sound of moving object. Then I feel the slight wind I am now sure is going to announce my ultimate fate in the next millisecond.

_Of course…the bloody afterlife transport system…_

Slap!

* * *

Hell turns out not to be such a bad place. The slap was almost worth it. Arriving in the underworld mere moments ago, I am astounded by the sight. I can only described it as a library in a cave. A massive hall stretches out like a windowless cathedral with hundreds of hollow caves punctuating the walls. Shelves are masterfully cut into the stones, creating wallpapers of books. The space is lit by thousands of tiny fires floating in the air, like a hologramic image you cannot touch, perfectly uniform as if designed for reading.

"Welcome to Hell, sir, the place where all knowledge is held," someone speaks from behind me. I turn around to face a humanoid frog in a butler suit, bowing low, "please feel free to explore and read to your heart's content. If you need anything – refreshments, a sofa, or a violin – simply wish, and it will be yours. We only ask that you respect the silence of Hell, sir, as there are many souls here who wish for peace."

As fast as the frog-humanoid shows up, it leaps twenty feet into the air and perch on one of the smaller cave carved into the ceiling above the bookshelves, and disappears in seconds.

Intrigued, I begin inspecting the books. Although I initially felt the phrase 'all knowledge is held' was said for a dramatic flair, I soon find this might just be the only possible place. The books are endless. One cannot even begin to guess the number of the inventory.

As I walk around the shelves, I start to look closer at the book titles. Initially, the titles were not in English, but as soon as I wished it were, it became so. 'Poems of the Vikings', 'Mesopotamia's farming techniques', and 'The Calendar of the Nile Tides: from genesis to judgment day" are some of the titles that sit alongside the weirder ones: 'Anatomy of the Earth', 'The Physics of Metaphysics', 'Why God is an Atheist'…

_What?_

I pause mid stride and pick up the last book. I have almost forgot God's ridiculous claim while entertaining myself with the concept of morality. In quick succession, I find an available table, lower myself into the bench, and open the book.

_Let's see your secret, God._

Heart pumping, I peel back the cover. A blank page shows itself to me. It is not white, but covered in a flexible reflective surface so that I see my reflection in the book.

_Interesting_

Expecting to discover real contents this time, I turn another page. Blank again. Mirror-like again. Then I find out that the whole book is filled with blank pages of mirror-like surface. Not a single word resides in it but the cover.

"Ah, at last, Sherlock! Here you are," suddenly comes the voice I dread to hear. But then someone else speaks, which consequently makes the first voice sweeter than the gods' nectar.

"Good day, Mister Holmes," says Professor Moriarty. I knew it was a matter of time…

"What a coincidence, Mycroft, Professor," I turn and nod to each of them in turn. "So I see you are both well acquainted. Thank you for saving me the displeasure of introductions."

Both Moriarty and Mycroft chuckle at this.

"Mister Holmes, when you are granted anything you wish for, you quickly learn to set aside differences. There is no longer anything to be gain."

"But you must not be serious! Professor, you have never done this simply for material gains, you do it for the control, the power, and the pure pleasure of the thrill in criminal activities."

"That is true, little brother, and well, that is partly why and how we met each other," Mycroft's eyes lit up, "In the Game Rooms."

"Yes, Mister Holmes, my desire for power and thrill, is more than satisfied in the Game Rooms. Which brings us to the reason we have sought you out. Mister Holmes Senior, if you will?"

"Yes, Moriarty, of course," Mycroft smiles, "We are here to invite you into the Games Rooms, Sherlock. Our previous partner, Mister Bertrand Russell, has left us to heaven! What a terrible bore! However, on the bright side, that leaves an empty place within our partnership. So what do you say, brother? Will you join us?"

Mycroft heaves his massive body to stand directly in front of me, extending a plump, sausage-fingers, hand. Then he smiles the psychopathic smile I recognise when he desires my assistance, and adds a single syllable word I have always hated: "Please?"

_Bloody brother…_

* * *

**Thank you for reading. This chapter hopefully gives you an appetiser to the evolving complex philosophy of why God is an atheist. The whole chapter is riddled with clues and if you read philosophy seriously, you may already know the answer. If not, it's better, I get to build up and explain a really cool philosophical point for you guys. **

**If you don't know who Bertrand Russell is, he is a very famous logician in the early 20th century. Clever guy, and in the following chapters I will be exploring the idea of logic. If you want a quick fun history on Russell, I recommend a graphic novel called: 'Logicomix' - very good biography. If you want to know his most important work, personally I think it's his "history of western philosophy" (I am still reading it myself, not finished yet). If you want to read a ridiculously difficult but small mathematical-logic piece by him, search "Why 1+1=2 by Bertrand Russell". A point to note, the philosophical topics in this book will go beyond Russell's philosophy.**

**On a side note, I may start to rewrite the whole book over the next few months. I've been trying to study how to write fiction on my own and now that I read my original chapters, I feel they are not up to par. However, I will keep updating the story as is, until my rewriting catches up.**

**Next chapter, I will explain why I have built up my version of Hell as it is in the author's note section, in case any of you are curious why Hell seems like such a good place (we are all prolific readers here, so I trust you would like to spend a few days in my version of Hell).**

**Finally, sorry for the late upload, it's been a crazy month for me. Thanks for the review - you know who you are - I appreciate it.**


	9. A Game of Words

Chapter 9:

The Games Room is hidden behind a labyrinth of crooked pathways that lead off the main hall of Hell. A small heavy oak door stands guard between my curiosity and what Moriarty promises to be more indulging than tobacco. I do not believe him, of course, but he does have a tendency not to lie. And I have also got tired of the fine tobacco afterlife excessively provides me…I enter the room.

"Welcome back, gentlemen," an old man greets us energetically, "It seems you have found your new teammate! What a delight!"

"Yes, Master Socrates, it is indeed a delight. Now, what is the requirement to get us back to level 5?" my brother asks impatiently.

"Straight to business, I see. Very well, follow me all of you." Socrates turns and stalks into the room, disappointed with Mycroft's lack of familiarity.

The room should not really be called 'a room'. Despite the dwarfish door, we emerge into a Greek podium with white circular stone benches climbing up the sides. It looks no different to the illustration of the infamous Colosseum. The most striking feature, though, is the lack of ceiling. Above us lies the vast blue sky scattered with sauntering pockets of cloud.

_This is one hell of a Hell._

"To proceed to level 5, Mister Holmes, junior of course, will have to go through all the previous levels, starting with mine," Socrates interrupts my childish wonder, "You are not allowed to give direct instruction, although obscure advice is acceptable. Should you break the rule, I will terminate your team, and all of you will have to find new partners."

Socrates now turns to me.

"Let me explain the rules of my realm, Mister Holmes. This realm is called Dialectical Deduction. In its very simplest form, you have to win arguments from all your challengers until you have reached a Plato point."

"Plato point?"

"A point in which there is no more challenger and you have gained a profound understanding of arguments. When you have reached this point, you will proceed to level two, where the new Gamemaster will intro…"

"No, thank you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I am not playing this game, Mister Socrates. Moriarty here promised me an experience comparable to drug, and I wanted to assist Mycroft. However, this is simply too tedious a road I have to journey."

"But Mister Holmes, did we forget to tell you?" interjects Moriarty, "you do not have a choice."

"What?"

"That is correct, little brother. Once you have entered this room, you cannot simply walk out. If you walk back through the door, you will only find it an empty frame. Besides, look over there, even your Watson is playing this game."

I look. And there he is, a slightly fat figure in a brown scot two-pieces suit animatedly talking, or rather arguing, with another man wearing a frilly Renaissance outfit with high collar.

"Impressive really, for a man whose talent in argument rivals a goldfish," observes Socrates, "He is now arguing with Mister Descartes, a mathematician of unrivaled intellect, but not a very talented arguer. You see, Mister Holmes, Mister Descartes relies too much on the assumption tha…"

"Watson! Man, come over here!" I shout, ignoring the unending lecture of Socrates. However, Watson does not seem to notice and continues to argue animatedly with Descartes.

"I must apologise for the inconvenience, Mister Holmes. It seems your brother and Mister Moriarty have tricked you into entering this game. But as has been explained by your brother, you cannot quit, neither can you communicate with anyone I do not wish you to. Unfortunately, it is not the time for Mister Watson and you to unite quite yet. You must wait until the end of this game."

"Very well," I grunt. There is not much I can do now, but to get to the end and wait for Watson. He may be able to tell me what God is doing to leave us in such place.

_And where is Irene…_

"Let us begin this game then, Gamemaster," I turn to Socrates, mustering all the malice I am capable of feeling into my voice. "For I will defeat this game as easily as I have defeated Professor Moriarty."

"That's the spirit, little brother!" exclaims Mycroft.

The professor stands in silence, smiling a smile that fails to reach his eyes.

"Then let us begin," Socrates says quietly and swiftly brings his hands together above his head.

Clap!

Suddenly, I feel a force tugs me from the side and crushes my body and bones into an infinitesimal point. The force drags my nonexistent body through the air, and as it reaches its destination, reconstructs me bits by bit, bones by bone, organs by organ.

And then I stand before a man who wears an outfit similar to Socrates's, with long white robe wrapping the body and hanging on one shoulder, leaving the other bare.

"Good day, contestant," the man greets tiredly, "The name is Heraclitus."

"Good day, sir. I am Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, then, Sherlock Holmes," smiles Heraclitus, "you have met my contemporary, Master Socrates, and it seems he is impressed! To send your very first contest against me, he must be very confident in you indeed."

"Your contemporary? I must admit I have never heard of you nor the Gamemaster," I inquire.

"You have never heard of me? Nor Socrates? Which century are you in, boy, for your teachers to have neglected the lessons we have laboured our lives away to pass on down the generations?"

"I was born at the cross between the 19th and 20th Century." I reply feeling slightly astounded by the man's arrogance.

"And how should I know what is this 20th Century? Draw me a map of the stars and I shall deduce my own understanding."

"A map of the sta – Never mind - … As you wish," I sigh, giving up trying to understand this strange situation. I begin tracing my finger on the sand filled floor of the Colosseum. The task is difficult without the aid of ruler and other tools, but soon enough, the picture of the constellations from my memory slowly emerges as I draw, erase, and redraw, until everything makes sense and is in its proper place as I last remembered it. Once I have finished, slightly proud of my almost perfect memory, Heraclitus moves over and peers at my drawing, murmuring all the while.

"Three thousand years," Heraclitus says after a few minutes, "that is roughly how far apart we are in time, boy. And it seems my lesson did not survive the destruction of time. Shame…indeed…shame. My life wasted for nothing…"

"I must apologise," I say with a slight tang of pity, "should it make you feel any better, Mister Heraclitus, I did not go through the required years of education. I was deemed too unconventional for the academic texts and tests."

Heraclitus's face lights up like fire to tobacco paper.

"Of course! Of course! What does an uneducated man know of my philosophy or Socrates's? I should have known that it would survive! How absolutely daft of me to think otherwise?"

…_It's your fault, Sherlock, for pitying this son of a bitch…_

I breathe in and out deeply before finishing my thoughts. I do not like to think myself quick to anger, but the people in the afterlife I have met so far are beyond lacking in manners. Either that, or I was born into an unnaturally polite society, in which case, I should argue that it is the only proper society.

In spite of the rudeness I have to put up with, finding out that we had over 3000 years gap of time turns out to be an excellent conversational topic. As it turns out, Heraclitus needed the constellations to locate when the 20th Century is in contrast to his ancient Greece calendar, for the notion of century was invented from the death of Christ, an event that came to be after ancient Greece had fallen.

We also go on to discuss the different ideas and cultures, fashion and art, people and politics. The contrasts between our two civilisations are beyond one's imagination. Fascinating subjects never left the circle of our talk, until we arrived at the topic of science…

"Three thousand years ago, I am certain you must be ignorant to the true science of Chemistry," I start lightly, "so let me explain how Chemistry has shone the light of truth against the questionable subject of Alchemy. It all starts with the idea of molecules…"

"Ah, but I do know."

"What? How?"

"Well, Mister Sherlock Holmes, remember that we are in Hell, the place where all knowledge is stored!" Heraclitus declares with delight.

"So you have read a book on Chemistry?"

"Oh no, that knowledge is already implanted into you when you tread upon this realm. It is like a long lost memory. You cannot remember it, but if you try hard enough to recall, you shall be granted the knowledge as if you have always known it. It will come in a flash of clarity, and you shall know all that is knowable."

"And yet you did not know who I am, neither did you know when I come from, nor what the 20th Century is," I counter his claim.

"Indeed. What is 'knowable' is a truly mind stretching idea. For who you are is not a common knowledge, and neither is it common knowledge to know when you were born; and similarly, 20th Century is simply a name for a date among hundred other names that have been created through the entire collective civilisations of humankind from past to present."

"Nay, Mister Holmes, what is knowable must fulfill certain requirements I have yet to puzzle out. However, what is knowable is known by you, should you choose to remember it."

"Does that mean I know all things past, present, and future?"

"Yes, in a sense. Yet, the concept of _knowable_ is elusive. What you know from the discovery of the future cannot truly exceed the collective knowledge of all persons in a given time in Hell. As such, we shan't know the full subject of neuroscience, for the full science has yet to be discovered in the earthly world."

"So the limit of knowledge in the Afterlife is limited to the current knowledge of the earth?"

"Correct."

"That would suggest that I did not wake to the afterlife straightaway? For if I did, then all knowledge would be the knowledge up to my generation."

"That is also correct."

"This is going to get even more complicated, is it not?"

"Well done, Mister Holmes, you are an excellent student today despite your failure in earthly education."

Heraclitus smiles wickedly and holds a finger to his mouth to signal the end of this particular conversation. There are many other people around us, although at quite a distance. All of them are arguing with one another, with hands flying, spit shooting, and fists being clenched and unclenched. However, all are conducted in silence. Only my voice and Heraclitus's remain audible.

"Shall we get on with the game then, Mister Holmes?"

"Gladly, Mister Heraclitus. After all, this is the chance for my uneducated self to kick your highly educated arse," I smile.

_I can be rude as well._

"As it is the chance for my educated arse to defecate upon your uneducated face, Mister Holmes."

I stop smiling.


	10. A Test of Intelligence

Chapter 10: argument

The rule is simple for an apparently serious game. Heraclitus proposes a claim; I dispute the claim; he defends it; I then dispute his defence; he defends again. This sequence continues until Heraclitus admits that the claim is wrong.

"What if your claim is already correct?" I inquire.

"Well, Mister Holmes, then you shall have to make sure that it is not."

Annoyed but too exhausted to counter, I give in and simply tell him to get on with it. For now, my purpose is to finish this quickly and rejoin Watson.

"Because you are an uneducated person, you must be stupid."

"What?"

"That is my claim, Mister Holmes. You are, after all, unfamiliar with my name."

I feel a vessel in my brain bursts. Closing my eyes and breathing out slowly, I repeat to myself the age-old saying that patience is a virtue, although a little voice in my head keeps telling me that I am in hell, and virtue is probably not the best quality to have. Wishing away distractions in my mind, I shake my head and start speaking.

"Fine. The flaw in that is quite simple. Since you imply that if one is uneducated, one must be stupid, I ask that you summon your so-call knowledge and show me evidence to support your claim."

Heraclitus raises one eyebrow and suddenly three leather bound books appear floating before us. They are labeled:

"IQ and education: statistics 1800-1900",

"IQ and education: statistics 1700-1800",

"IQ and education: statistics 1600-1700".

He reaches out and opens each of them in turn, revealing neatly drawn graphs and tables of numbers.

"Very well, Mister Holmes, let us take a look!"

To my bewilderment, all three graphs indeed show that those with low education have low IQ. Flabbergasted, I stare open mouth for almost ten seconds before recollecting myself.

"…Impossible…" I mutter.

"Will you accept my claim then, Sherlock Holmes?"

I keep my mouth shut.

_Something must be wrong. It does not make sense for a real correlation between intelligence and education to exist! _

I keep my eyes casted down and think and think and think…

Then it hit me.

I pick up the first book of the three volumes and flip to the very front, then carefully read through the first few pages, looking for the evidence to support my intuition. My finger traces the writings as my eyes glide along sentence by sentence. I feel Heraclitus staring at me silently, but I ignore him and press on my quest to search for one single sentence that will prove him wrong – one single sentence that will get me out of this bloody game; one single sentence that is proof I was not arrogant to think myself a capable detective…

Then I see it.

"… _it should be noted that the resulting IQ in this book is based on the first popular intelligence test given in 1952…_"

_Got it._

My eyes meet Heraclitus for the first time after the books appeared. My confidence must have shown through because my opponent's gaze falters for the shortest amount of time as soon as my eyes met his.

"1912, Mister Heraclitus, is the year which the first intelligence test was created. Unfortunately, that test bases your knowledge on complex linguistic instrument of which an uneducated man would do little better than pure guessing. The correlation therefore exists only because they are one and the same. You have given me a book that simply says one's education directly correlates with one's education."

I pause for breath before delivering my final verdict.

"This statistics therefore do not truly represent your claim. If intelligence is to be measured according to the performance of the brain itself, this has shown naught worth considering."

To further my point, I steal the trick Heraclitus showed me earlier and summon three new leather bound books, open them, and show to the man three sets of graphs that represent no correlation between one's intelligence and one's education.

"This, Mister Heraclitus, is the true graphical trend that show the correlation between intelligence and education. You may check the dates and the validity of the IQ test used in these books. And this, my friend, ends your claim."

I made sure to finish my speech with the finality I used to make when revealing the criminal to Watson when I was alive.

"Impressive. Most would have accepted the statistics at face value and bowed over to the illusion of cold logic. It is, Mister Holmes, the very fundamental of argument to construct claims according to assumptions. In this case, we must assume what the appropriate intelligence test is and what qualifies as education, so that we can try to see if they are related in any way. As you see, the assumption can be less concrete than most people suppose. It is my belief that one can never step into the same river twice, because the water never remains still. The river is similar to assumptions: they are both in a constant state of change."

Heraclitus appears more humble now, and gives me a small bow.

"For your quick wit, I grant you this win."

After some formalities, Heraclitus and I say our goodbyes as I am to be sent to the next contestant. He brings his hands together as Socrates had and…

Clap!

Again, a force pulls me from the side and I travel through warped space reappearing in front of another man in the same Colossal-like stadium. From far away, I glimpse Heraclitus greeting a new contestant.

Suddenly, a voice snatches my attention away from the sight.

"When there is light, there is darkness; when there is up, there is down; for every Yin, there is Yang; for every happiness, there is sadness. Everything exists in balance, completed by its opposite. What say you?"

Surprised by the sudden philosophical quote, I jump at the sight of an Asian man with half shaven head, his remaining long hair tied back into a ponytail.

…_No introductions necessary then, very well._

"What is the opposite of a chair? If you claim everything has an opposite, and a chair has no opposite, then your claim is wrong." I reply with confidence.

"A chair is not a thing. It is but a surface to which we sit. Molecules and atoms construct the chair, and these need to exist in balance, with the positive and negative force balancing them into matter. For without balance, the chair would simply collapse into a pile of non-connected molecules."

"That is quite true, sir, but your claim is foreword by 'for every happiness, there is sadness', a concept that you claim to be included in your definition of 'everything'. I fail to see why if happiness can be classified as 'thing', a chair cannot? Both are concepts based on human perception. I thereby refute your claim by giving an example of a chair, a thing which has no opposite."

The Asian man raises his eyebrows slightly and mutters to himself.

"Very fast, indeed."

He then unexpectedly turn back and start walking away from me.

"Walk with me, if you will, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

Unperturbed by his knowledge of my name, I decide to follow him and we walk side by side towards the other end of the Colosseum.

"I did not say that happiness is a 'thing'. That is a different claim. It is a claim that without sadness, there can be no happiness. My initial claim remains undisputed."

"Then such is the flaw in your statement. It is misleading and can be interpreted in too many ways. You only get to test me once, sir, and I have beaten you."

I reply with as little feeling as the man who is walking by my side shows toward me.

"Then entertain me, Mister Holmes. What if happiness is not a 'thing' in my first claim?"

We walk quietly for a few moments before I decide to reply.

"I believe your claim is still incorrect. It is true that there must be a balance of force for the molecules to arrange into a standing object. However, if we are to go to the very bottom of human knowledge on the smallest matter and examine whether it is in balance, we quickly find that as far as we know, it does not need to be. These minuscule particles blink in and out of existence, and their antithesis number less than the actual particles. As far as we know, balance of force, matter, and energy is only proven after assuming that particles already existed. We, however, cannot claim that the particles themselves must be balanced to exist."

My answer, which borders on becoming a small lecture, seems to impress the man as he keeps nodding his head all the while.

We walk in silence some more, before appearing at the end of a big wooden door that separates the podium from the outside world.

"And here I shall leave you, Mister Holmes, to face your final contestant. You have done very well; there are not many who can pass this stage by contesting with only three people. I bid you farewell and Godspeed."

_Godspeed…you can take that back. Last thing I need is that bloody self-proclaimed God wishing me luck._

"Goodbye, sir, although I did not catch your name?" I inquire out of politeness.

The man refuses to reply and simply traces his steps back to where he was; ready to greet a new contestant.

_Rudeness seems to be a norm in Hell. One would have thought the combined cultural history of the world would amount to greeting people properly at the very least…_

I sigh softly and start to fumble in my coat pocket for a pipe. The act of smoking will at least remind me of the good old days when manners still matter. Before I light my tobacco, a lit match held by a frail hand suddenly appears in front of me. Holding back my surprise, I obediently suck in the air in order not to waste the match – old habit dies hard. As I am about to look up and thank the owner of the hand, a dreaded feeling befall me. I know before I even begin to groan because the man who so kindly lighted my pipe for me is, of course, God.

_So that was a pun…Ha… Very funny, you half-bald asshole._


End file.
